There Are Unexplored Possibilities About You
by hifunctioning
Summary: In Which John Struggles With His Fluid Sexuality, Sherlock Struggles With His Massive Brain, And Sherlock Discovers He Is A Total Sub. Sex, Smut, BDSM lite.


A/N: Very loosely inspired by the two quotes below. I just loved how sweetly S calls J an idiot in the first quote, and how sweetly J calls S an attention whore in the second, and so I made them be about nasty kinky sex. And also the angst. I also wrote a sequel to this called "What To Do When It Will Never Be Enough."

'I never get your limits, Watson,' said Holmes. 'There are unexplored possibilities about you.' -_- The Sussex Vampire_

My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty. -_- A Study in Scarlet_

* * *

Life at 221B Baker Street has always been strange, but it's never been awkward. Until now.

John should've seen it coming. He was a fool not to. They'd come home from a case, high on adrenaline, laughing their way up the stairs. John had put the kettle on for tea, turned around in time to see Sherlock taking off his scarf, exposing his perfect throat, and somehow (it had to have been the sleep deprivation, John hadn't had a proper sleep in three days) the sight was so beautiful it almost brought tears to his eyes. Sherlock must have seen it in his face because he met his gaze and froze in the process of taking off his coat.

There had been moments leading up to that one of course. Glances that lasted a little too long. Hands touching in a cab. One of them brushing up against the other to reach for something on a high shelf. The time John had to pick bits of glass out of Sherlock's chest and clean and bandage him, that had taken bloody forever. The time Sherlock tested a drug on both of them and they found themselves on the floor, snuggled cheek to cheek. Alright, that one was almost awkward, but instead it was so ridiculous they laughed till tears streamed down both their faces.

But that frozen moment, that night in the kitchen, John's heart stopped and although he tried to tell himself no, this is not cardiac arrest, you cannot die from this, he was convinced, absolutely convinced, it would not beat again unless Sherlock touched him. And then Sherlock touched him.

From there, it was mostly a blur. All heat and fumbling and hands and tongues and everywhere. Later, John could remember only disconnected fragments. Drowning in that kiss, eyes open because Sherlock's eyes were open and he could not look away and he was sure he was dying and he never wanted to stop. Sherlock's eyes fluttering closed and that's when his brain kicked back in gear for just a moment, his traitorous brain throwing its shoulder against the door, trying to break in and shut it all down, but then there was Sherlock pressing against him and moaning softly and his brain knew when it was beat, it gave up and slunk away. John could remember, though it made him hard and filled him with horror every time, dropping to his knees desperately, hungrily. With vivid clarity, he remembered the small noise in the back of Sherlock's throat at that moment, and the way his entire body tensed just slightly before he rested his hands on John's head, and later (though he tried not to think about this, tried not to analyze it, tried not to touch himself as it replayed over and over in his mind) he realized that sound, that motion, was surprise. He had _surprised_ Sherlock Holmes. But at the time, he didn't think of that, he didn't think of anything other than wanting Sherlock, wanting to know him in every way possible. He could remember the way Sherlock's hands and legs stilled and his wordless moan broke into silence as he came. He could remember (though later he convinced himself that no, he'd really just imagined it, dreamed it, that couldn't be real) Sherlock's eyes, so vulnerable and open and almost pleading as John came in his hands.

By all rights it should have been, but that night was not awkward at all, because they were so exhausted they barely made it to Sherlock's bed. When John half-woke for a few minutes in the middle of the night to find Sherlock's impossibly long limbs wrapped around him, it neither surprised nor bothered him.

The next morning, John worried in the shower about what it all meant, the realization slowly dawning on him, the panic slowly rising in his gut. But when he stepped out of the bathroom, thank you God and Greg Lestrade, Sherlock was standing there grinning, saying, "A case, John! Hurry up and get dressed!"

It was a murder-suicide in Tooting that turned out to be a murder-murder-murder-murder. It was blessedly intricate and complicated, requiring the full attention of Sherlock's brain and all of John's capacity in fieldwork and errands, both large and small. While John was in the flat, Sherlock was talking, and John knew his job was simply to sit there and admire, something he could do very well indeed. If he had something to say, he would say it, and Sherlock would shoot it down with a careless insult, and that was fine. If he had nothing to say, he could just watch the afternoon light play across Sherlock's cheekbones or notice the elegant curve of his long fingers as he waved his hands around or consider the lovely silhouette of his profile in front of the window. He could do those things, but of course he didn't, because John Watson was heterosexual. He had never thought of another man this way in all his 39 years and if once, in basic training, he'd let another man give him a handjob, it did not mean he was sexually attracted to that man. He wasn't. It was dark and he was thinking only of Laura Patel.

The Tooting case lasted a few days. And then it was over. They returned from the Yard in a cab, walked up the stairs in silence. John almost went to put the kettle on for tea but then thought of how the last case ended, made an about face, and sat down in his armchair.

"John?" Sherlock was taking off his scarf and coat. John was absolutely not going to look. "John, cuppa tea?"

"Yeah, that'd be nice," John replied. And then, because he couldn't expect Sherlock to understand the subtleties of polite communication, "You should make it."

"Oh." Sherlock sounded slightly annoyed, but he was in a good mood and inclined to humor his flatmate. He turned the kettle on and, with some effort, found the tea bags and a couple of mugs.

"John?" Sherlock called again. John didn't answer. He was staring intently at a newspaper, not exactly reading it, but on the plus side, definitely not looking at Sherlock. "I want to have sex again." John dropped the newspaper and groaned. When he looked up, Sherlock was standing next to him with their tea mugs. "Does that sound mean that you don't?"

That night, John's brain put up a noble fight. He tried to convince Sherlock that he was straight, and this had to be some kind of fluke which would no doubt blow over ("Are you sure you haven't been putting something in my tea?"). He tried to explain to Sherlock that sex was a bad idea for friends, for flatmates, and for professional associates and therefore, a spectacularly bad idea for them in particular. He tried to persuade Sherlock that what they were mistaking for intense attraction was in fact just the camaraderie and adrenaline of their work, combined with pent up sexual energy, and maybe they should both be dating more, or at least John should be dating more and Sherlock should… find some other outlet.

Sherlock listened, or made an unusual effort to pretend to be listening, sitting in his armchair across from John. Finally he interrupted him with a hand on his knee and said, "John. Just when I think you have reached the limits of your stupidity, you show me a universe of unexplored possibilities. You're really quite incredible. Are you going to fuck me or not?"

John sucked in his breath and felt, again, that he would never be free to look away from those eyes. And then Sherlock kissed him and everything fell apart. Only this time, he found himself with Sherlock's leg draped over his shoulder, pushing himself in deeper, Sherlock gripping his arms so tightly there were bruises there the next day, feeling he would implode from the heat and the closeness and the sound of Sherlock's voice.

Afterwards, Sherlock went to sleep on the sofa and John went to his bed and stared at the ceiling and wondered how he could feel so completely connected to someone and so completely alone within the space of a few minutes.

It got awkward then. There was no case in the morning. John avoided Sherlock for the first day, which was not his style at all, he'd always prided himself on being a responsible and communicative person in these situations. When he had one-night stands, the woman involved always knew exactly what she was getting into. He excelled at mornings-after; he knew exactly the right smiles and kisses to be reassuring and flattering without promising more than he could give, and though he tended to stammer through those conversations (fortunately, in a way most women found endearing), he was always able to communicate his intentions clearly and respectfully. But all of that was useless now. He'd developed no skills relevant to a post-shag talk with a supergenius detective sociopathic flatmate friend. Guy.

Fortunately, he had a long shift at the surgery on the second day. On the third day, he woke to the sound of a minor explosion in the kitchen and decided to take that as a call to action. He got dressed (never a good idea to have these conversations in pyjamas) and found Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by puddles of… something… and singed clumps of… something else.

"Yes, yes, I'll clean it up as soon as I'm done," Sherlock said without looking up from his microscope.

"Yeah, see that you do," John replied, although he knew that he wouldn't. "Listen, I want to talk to you about something. You can keep on with your microscope though." _Please do, _he thought._ The last thing I need is your eyes while I'm trying to do this._

"Mm," Sherlock grunted. "You're uncomfortable with the fact that we've had sex twice. You're ambivalent, you want to know how I feel" – the word _feel_ seemed to float in front of him with exaggerated quotation marks around it – "and you still think it's a bad idea but you're not actually going to tell me to stop."

John was far from surprised. He'd rather hoped that Sherlock would condense the whole conversation in exactly this manner. "Yeah, that about covers it. Except, actually I am going to tell you to stop." There. Done. John felt like giving himself a medal.

"Oh?" Sherlock's body stiffened, but he didn't lift his head from his microscope. A long moment stretched across the flat. "Didn't you like it?"

John couldn't identify the tone in his voice. Was this teasing? Insecurity? Scientific curiosity? He cleared his throat nervously. "I… of course I… Well, you were there, didn't you observe…" Sherlock's mouth twisted into a half-smile. "So, yeah. But, y'know, all the reasons I said before. We have a good friendship here, don't we? I don't want to muck it up, the way sex tends to do. And I'm straight, so it's bound to crash and burn. I just think it's best…"

"What do you mean you're straight?" Sherlock stood up slowly, like a cat stretching.

"I don't like men, I don't look at men that way. This… You know I don't have any problem with people being gay…" He knew how weak that sounded but it was true, wasn't he Harry's only defender when she came out? Wasn't he the one to restrain their stepfather while she got her things from the house and the one to talk to their mum and gran for two years until finally they could say "I love you" and invite her to Christmas dinner? But Harry was different, she'd always liked girls, ever since she was caught playing House with Jessie Grayson (who, for the record, John had kissed first), there'd never been any question about her. And there had never been any question about John either. Till now. "It's just that I'm not. I haven't ever. _Ever_. I don't know how to explain this."

"Could it be because I'm unlike any other man you've ever met?"

John snorted. "Well that is… certainly true. You are singularly arrogant and self-centered and obnoxious, that's for sure."

In the kitchen doorway, Sherlock waved a vaguely dismissive gesture. "Don't pretend, you sound ridiculous. Obviously I'm a different category. You're in a different category too. I have never met anyone like you. You're ordinary, with average intelligence or barely above, your mind rarely harbors an original thought, and yet you are so utterly fascinating. I don't have any idea how you do it. And I want to have sex with you. What difference does it make if you're a man or a woman?"

John licked his lips nervously. "It makes a hell of a lot of difference to me."

"Does it? Why?"

John's brain was useless. It tried to rally for a token fight, but flopped over in exhaustion and transmitted only fragments like _lips… collarbone… buttons…_ and John was left defenseless again. "Sherlock," he finally said, staring at his hands. "You have already reached into every other part of my life and turned it upside down. You don't get to have this too. I'm sure you think you're the most marvelous thing that ever happened to me, but just… Just stop. For once in your life…" He cursed under his breath and left.

Sherlock shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and chewed his bottom lip. He began to pace furiously around the sitting room but then stopped, squared his shoulders, and picked his violin up off the desk. _John has stomped out of here cursing me at least 24 times,_ he thought. _He always comes back. Not to worry. _He settled the violin under his chin and began a Vivaldi concerto.

* * *

That night, John doesn't come home after the surgery. He goes to a pub and gets a bit pissed and meets a lovely ginger with round hazel eyes and round freckled breasts and the most deliciously round arse that bounces just a bit as she walks ahead of him. As they kiss on the sidewalk, he learns that she is staying with her sister just now and so they'll have to go to his place. He really was hoping to avoid that. But when they get to 221B, Sherlock doesn't appear at the top of the stairs with some bizarre and urgent demand, and they aren't disturbed during the night by explosions or violin solos, and the sex is very nice, it's warm and familiar and easy and made up of things John understands. In the morning, he smiles to see her hair spread across his pillow. Hoping to keep her away from Sherlock, he explains to her that the shower is broken, but she doesn't seem to mind, they kiss and exchange phone numbers and she leaves, and John feels like he might be on solid ground again for the first time in days.

"Sherlock, it smells terrible in here, at least you could've opened up some windows. Oh god, please don't tell me you're dissecting pigeons in our kitchen."

Sherlock obliges, and is silent. He turns his attention to the third pigeon in a line of four pinned out before him.

John opens the windows. He stands a moment in the sitting room, leaning out over Baker Street and inhaling lungfuls of fresh air. When he draws his head back in he sees Sherlock is staring at him.

"What's her name?," he asks casually.

"What? Oh Christ. Do we have to do this?"

"Do what?"

"You don't care about her name. Is this where you tell me she's a kleptomaniac and has syphilis and a homicidal ex-boyfriend?"

"How could I possibly know that, John? I haven't even seen her. All I know is that she's 160 to 165 centimeters tall, about between eight or nine stones, and sprained her right ankle not long ago and shouldn't be wearing heels. I'd guess she's a runner, though the sprain could've been an everyday fall. She's on her feet all day, need more data to deduce her occupation. She's recently out of a relationship and enjoying her new freedom. She had three orgasms and the last time, she was on top." He pauses, thinks a moment. "She was wearing tight jeans and you liked her arse. I'm not psychic, John, I don't know how you think I could come up with anymore than that."

John sighs. "Her name is Tricia. She sprained her ankle running the Royal Parks Half. She's a nurse."

"Ah. But you met her at a pub, not the surgery."

"Brilliant," John replies dryly. "Are we done here?"

"Did you enjoy sex with her?"

"Jesus." John covers his face with both hands. "Fine. Yes. Very much."

"Did you prefer her over me?"

"I… um… Sherlock, I am a straight man and she is a beautiful woman."

"That's not even remotely what I asked."

John drops his hands and sees Sherlock, now standing in the kitchen doorway, fidgeting in his pockets, his jaw tense and eyes burning blue. He wants to say _yes, yes, you selfish arrogant git, I do prefer her, the earth revolves around the sun not around you, I want her, and I want loads of other women, not you. _He might be able to if it weren't for those relentless eyes. Instead, he says in a voice that is both rough and helpless, "Come here."

Sherlock comes, and stands in front of John, so close their faces are almost touching. John concentrates on breathing and then on Sherlock's neck, the long elegant lines of it and the way it slopes under the collar of his shirt. He reaches up his left hand, finds the carotid artery, feels the pulse quicken under his fingers. He curves his hand around Sherlock's throat, traces it down along to his collarbone and then up to his jawline. Sherlock exhales slightly and lowers his head for a kiss. Instead, John places his hands firmly on Sherlock's shoulders and says gruffly, "On your knees." There's a pause, a deep breath, and then he is there, rubbing his face across John's crotch, his hands on John's hips, and John's eyes are closed and his breath coming ragged as his brain struggles to make itself useful in some way. "My belt," John is finally able to gasp and Sherlock responds immediately, as if he's been waiting for the command, his long graceful fingers quickly pulling the belt out of its loops. He looks up, his pale eyes holding John's, and lifts up the belt with both hands, an offering. John takes it, pulls it taut, and goes rock hard as his brain suddenly bursts back on the scene, offering a dizzying menu of ways he could use it. He clenches his jaw to keep control and decides to keep it simple, this time. _This time? As if there will be more? Stop it. Stop, shut up. _John loops the belt around Sherlock's neck, caressing it lightly as he does, and then abruptly yanks it tight with his left hand. Sherlock gasps, his fingers dig into John's hips, his pupils dilate. John groans quietly. "My cock," he says, and again Sherlock springs into action, unbuttoning, unzipping, and now Sherlock is licking the shaft slowly up and down, circling the base with his long fingers, kissing the precum off the tip, licking his own lips, taking it in his mouth, and although John knows it's not possible, he feels like the entirety of Sherlock's incomprehensible, multitudinous, exquisite brain is concentrated down to the singular focus of his cock.

John is mesmerized, speechless, shaking. "Take it all," he rasps, and Sherlock does, swallowing the whole length of it, gagging just slightly, then relaxing, adjusting and taking the rest. John draws a long painful breath, buries his right hand deep in Sherlock's hair, tugs hard, and says in the firmest voice he can muster, "I'm going to fuck your mouth now." Sherlock hums low in his throat and the vibrations reverbate throughout John's body. "Ah," John says, "you like that." And he would not be able to describe the feeling, the heat and sweetness thickly spreading to every centimeter of his body, the high of knowing what Sherlock likes and what Sherlock likes is this: John's cock thrusting in his mouth, one hand holding his head in place, the other pulling the belt tight on his neck, his eyes watering, his throat opening, and there is no space for anything else, this is consuming, for just a moment this is everything. They are both making sounds, groans and whimpers and others, and then John is gasping out, "swallow," and Sherlock does, hungrily, every drop, like it will never be enough.

John's head is slumped against his chest, his eyes closed, his breathing gradually returning to something like normal. His left hand still holds the end of the belt, but it's slack now. His right hand rests on Sherlock's head, like he left it there accidentally. Sherlock keeps his hands on John's hips, keeps his eyes fixed on John's face, waiting. Somewhere in the back of his mind he is calculating the ph of John's semen and the average speed of the tremors in his legs when he came, notating and cataloging the noises he made and adding them to the growing index, picturing the red abrasions left on his own throat which will last 36 to 48 hours, visualizing what's under the muscles under the skin under his hands, pelvic bone, iliac crest, acetabulum, femur… But that is all faint background noise. The bulk of his mind is relatively empty. It's heaven. He waits to see if John can prolong this feeling. Doubtful.

John opens his eyes at last. Below him, Sherlock's lips are rough and red, his cheeks are flushed, his eyes, heavy-lidded, are dark now and insistent, pushing at John, asking… John has no idea what he is asking. He pulls the belt off Sherlock's neck and sees disappointment flicker in those pale eyes. He grabs Sherlock's chin roughly and bends down. He thinks of kissing him but lets go, tucks himself back into his trousers, steps back, and turns away. He sees his own reflection in the mirror above the fireplace and stares himself down. Who is that man with no self-control, no self-respect? And the other man in this room, the one with the power to destroy every wall before him, crashing through it like a bulldozer or slicing through it like an elegant sword, the man who seems to believe he can have every last bloody thing he wants, who is he? His wanting is immense, as monstrous and voracious as his mind, and John can feel it looming behind him.

Sherlock sighs as his hands fall, feeling the world start to push back into his mind, leaning in on it, leaking through every crack, the bit of glass on the carpet six centimeters away from the window, the cry of a baby in the flat across the street, the temperature of the room about two degrees warmer than before (this could affect the pigeon experiment, may have to start over), the argument between two cabbies at the corner (he knows from the squeal of tires three minutes ago that the one with the Pakistani accent is right), the suitcase wheels of Mrs. Turner's tenants bumping down their stairs, going on a holiday of at least ten days, the shallowness of John's breathing, the lint on his right sleeve, the tension returning to his back.

_So this is it, then,_ Sherlock thinks. _Why would this be any different? _He is still painfully hard, and thinks bitterly, _Looks like I'll be taking care of this myself. _He starts to get up and opens his mouth to say, _Are we done here?_, planning to precisely mimic John's dry tone when he said those words earlier. But before he can, John spins around, in one blurred movement, and slaps Sherlock across the face. He doesn't see it coming and it knocks him off balance, he lands on his elbow, staring up at John in amazement. His cheek stings and his mind, for a fleeting instant, is nothing but that sensation.

John is sitting in Sherlock's armchair. "Come here," he growls. And before Sherlock can stand, he adds: "Crawl." Sherlock crawls. He is rock hard and his trousers drag across his erection with each step. He keeps his eyes fixed on John's the whole way. Kneeling in front of John again, he waits. A minute ticks by before John gestures at Sherlock's crotch. Holding his stare steadily, Sherlock raises himself up on his knees, unbuttons his trousers, pulls them down around his hips, and leans back on his heels. "Touch yourself," John orders. Sherlock pulls out his cock and begins to stroke. "Slower." He swirls his thumb over the tip and slides it down the shaft, smearing precum around it and slowly, more slowly than he could have imagined possible, strokes the length of it, up and down. John watches, and then returns his gaze to Sherlock's eyes. "A little faster now," he whispers, and Sherlock's breath speeds up unevenly along with his hand. John grabs Sherlock's other hand and shoves it roughly into his mouth. Sherlock sucks his own fingers, swirling his tongue around them the same way he did John's cock, and John thinks he shouldn't be able to get hard again so soon but the memory sends shocks through his body. He leans forward, his lips brushing Sherlock's ear, and says, "Finger yourself." Sherlock doesn't hesitate. He twists his left arm behind him and John knows that must be uncomfortable, if he were a gentleman he'd help the guy out, but he is not feeling gentlemanly in the least. The most he will do is place one hand on each of Sherlock's shoulders so he won't lose his balance as he leans forward.

When he finds his prostate, Sherlock lets out a small guttural moan, tightens his grip on his cock, and pushes his weight into John's hands. He rubs it again and throws his head back, closing his eyes tightly. "No," John growls, "You keep your eyes open. You look at me. You come when I say you come." Sherlock blinks slowly, not trusting himself to speak, and stares at John as if it were the force of his eyes, not his hands, holding up the weight of his body. John feels it again, that sensation of honey spreading through his veins, the incredible, dizzying high of being the center of Sherlock's attention. Sherlock notices, of course, John's heartbeat rising again, his breath shallow and uneven, his pupils dilated, his lips trembling. He devours these details, sorts them into the index he's already created for this purpose, silently begs for more, but also no, no more, because it's too much, his hand on his cock, his finger inside, and John in front of him, and he will hold on until John says, he will, he bends his focus to this task, so that the atomic numbers of the 14 elements that occur in decay chains of primordial elements and the smell of Mrs. Hudson's baking (cardamom scones, John loves those, she'll be asking him to change a lightbulb or fix a leaky faucet later) and the symptoms of diseases commonly associated with pigeon droppings blur together and recede into the white noise. He will do this forever if he has to.

John's hands are shaking, or they would be if not for Sherlock's weight depending on them. He thinks back to how Sherlock came last time, moaning loudly, an arm thrown across his face. He licks his dry lips and says in a low, dark voice, "Quiet. Be quiet. And look at me." Sherlock looks at John, strokes himself, fingers himself, feels like he is being melted and cracked apart from inside, but doesn't stop. Finally he hears John's voice, hoarse but gentle, "Ok. Now."

Sherlock speeds up, bites his bottom lip till it bleeds, squeezes his right hand and drags it up the length of his cock, presses his finger in, and there's a shout that is rising up in his throat but he swallows it whole for John and his eyes want to slam shut but he throws his concentration into keeping them open for John, so that the orgasm almost sneaks up on him and suddenly it is exploding, white heat shooting through every nerve inside him and his eyes are open so he sees wonder on John's face, and he collapses, his hands on the floor, his head bowed, panting. He feels John's hand on his head, gently stroking his hair, and hears his voice, strangely tight, murmuring, "good, that's good." And then his footsteps, down the stairs and out onto Baker Street.

* * *

They don't talk about it, ever. During cases, they act like they always did before. Sherlock, consumed with the case, is often only vaguely aware of John, of a hot cup of tea appearing before him generally whenever he needs one, of a sandwich or samosa being pushed insistently in front of his face until he gives in and nibbles at it halfheartedly, of a warm presence next to him on the sofa, of occasional listening noises "mm-hmm," and "oh" and "d'you think so?" as he weaves his thought process through the air. He is consciously aware of John when he needs him, when there are corpses to examine, when there are excrutiatingly dull witnesses to interview, when there are boxes of files to sift through, when there are stubborn questions requiring stupid answers, when he can't find his mobile, when they exchange a silent look that says "could be dangerous" and head out into the night.

Between cases, some days are just like they were before. Others are not. Between cases, John never asks and Sherlock never says no. John says things like: "Stop." "Strip." "Lick it." "Take it." "Grab your ankles." "Get on the floor." "Spread your legs." "Open your mouth." "Wider." "Wait." "Beg." And Sherlock does. His lines are simple, all he has to say is: "Yes." "Please." "John." "More."

One afternoon, John says: "Count." Sherlock, spread eagle, face down, tied to the bedposts, starts counting the strokes of the riding crop criss-crossing his back, out loud in English and simultaneously in his mind, in French, German, Farsi, Japanese, Mandarin, and Arabic. To his astonishment, by the time he reaches 13, he has lost his grasp of all but English, French, and Japanese, and a dozen strokes later, he is struggling with English. His shock must show on his face, because John stops, leans over, and asks, "Sherlock. Are you ok?" and they all come crashing back in on him, the house in Toulon where they were only allowed to speak French, the Frankfurt accent of his first German teacher compared to the Munich accent of a client two years ago, the elegant curves and interlocking compounds of Farsi, the feel of a paintbrush dragging across rice paper while learning to write Kanji, the repetitious drills for the four tones of Mandarin, the dizzying kaleidoscope of accents and dialects filling his ears in a marketplace in Riyadh. Sherlock tries to find his way back, whispering, "Fine. More. Please." The crop whines through the air, coming down hard enough to cut, and he shudders and says again, "More." But he can't find his way back.

* * *

Sherlock is naked, covered in sweat, on his hands and knees on John's bed, two of John's fingers buried deep inside him, barely caressing him, driving him mad. Sherlock's cock aches for any contact – a hand, a leg, the friction of the sheets, anything – but John said "don't touch" so Sherlock will not touch. His hands are splayed out on either side of his head as he closes his eyes and breathes and waits.

"What are you thinking about in there?" John asks. His voice has the hard edge that always come out when they have sex, but curiosity as well. Sherlock turns his face against the mattress and doesn't answer. John frowns, twists his fingers, and jabs them sharply in, shooting spasms of pain and pleasure up Sherlock's spine. "Tell me what you're thinking," he growls, and Sherlock obeys. "You, John, only you," he pants, because it's almost true, as close to true as it is ever likely to get anyway, and even he understands that you can't say _You, John, and the thread count of your sheets, and three possible methodologies for a new experiment concerning bone splinters, and the frayed cord on your bedside lamp, and didn't you notice on the way home the amount of traffic on Marlyeborne, they must be doing work on Oxford, I need to confirm and adjust my mental map, and who is Donovan sleeping with now because she was obviously wearing yesterday's clothes today and the deodorant wasn't Anderson's and I'd like to find out who it is so I can take a dig at Anderson next time I see him, but all that's only so much static, you are utterly in the foreground, John, just please don't stop touching me._

"You're lying," John answers in a menacing voice. "Don't ever lie to me. Answer." He adds a third finger. Sherlock gasps. "I don't… I can't." There is a rawness in his voice that makes John pause and then pull his fingers out. Sherlock makes a desperate little noise, almost a sob. "Turn over," John orders, and Sherlock is lying on his back, his legs on either side of John, one arm across his face. "Let me see you." The arm falls down to Sherlock's side. John sits back on his heels, rests his hands on his thighs, and considers that with all they've done, he's never really allowed himself to look at Sherlock before. His eyes trace the outline of the body before him and then slowly linger over each detail within. He reaches out one hand and lightly trails his fingers down Sherlock's chest, watches him shiver, trails his fingers down Sherlock's left side, then his right, and rests his palm on Sherlock's stomach, next to his cock. Sherlock groans and twists his hips but John murmurs "shhh no no wait" and Sherlock has to calm himself, force his back down against the mattress, breathe, watch John, and wait.

John's eyes are fixed on his cock, as if this were something new, as if it they haven't been shagging for weeks now. Carefully, almost delicately, John places his hand on it. Sherlock moans and lifts his hips, pushing himself into John's hand. He feels the hardness and heat of it, the slick of precum that's leaking down the shaft. He wraps his hand around it, his eyes scanning back up Sherlock's pale wiry chest, across his collarbones, along his throat, to his jaw, his lips, his nose, his impossible eyes. "Perfect," he exhales, and Sherlock blinks in surprise. "Look at you. You are bloody perfect. You gorgeous, exquisite creature, you cannot possibly be human, you are too beautiful." John blushes a little; he's never talked like this before, not to a woman, not to anyone. He thinks he probably sounds ridiculous, but he can't care, not with the way Sherlock's looking at him, completely enthralled, like this is a holy revelation. And he can't care anymore, he realizes, if Sherlock is a man or some bizarre previously undiscovered species, he can't care if he's straight or gay, or what any of it means, because it's so simple, what it means is this body stretched out beneath his hands, vulnerable and open, this body that he would lay down his life to protect, again and again, he is touching this body, what more could there possibly be.

He shakes his head and chuckles a little at himself. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, asking why. "I'm an idiot," he explains. "I know," Sherlock replies fondly but breathlessly. "I'm the idiot who's going to fuck you senseless," he adds. "I know," Sherlock replies breathlessly and desperately.

John begins stroking his hand up and down the length of Sherlock's cock. " "Jesus, do you even know?" he murmurs, "Your transport is as amazing as your mind." Sherlock sighs in a way that makes John's already-hard cock throb with wanting, and somehow he finds the lube and then he's murmuring a steady stream of _gorgeous beautiful so much perfect want you mine_ as he pushes himself in and Sherlock is wrapping his legs around him, pulling him in, quiet except for his breathing so that he can listen to John and collect his words and take them inside of him, take all of him inside. And John is grabbing his hair and demanding, "Tell me what you want." And Sherlock is sobbing the answer, "You, John." "Tell me who you belong to." "You, John." "Tell me who you give this to." "You, John." "Tell me what you're thinking about." "You, John." And it's true, and then he's chanting _John John John John_ like a prayer as everything else shrinks and recedes and the white heat explodes and eclipses everything inside and out and Sherlock is broken apart, shattered into a million glittering shards until nothing is left. John holds the shaking body as tightly as he can, and then he is arching his back and coming, wordlessly, gratefully.

The world is piecing itself back together, but slowly. It's not pushing in but floating, just wisps of cloud that Sherlock can easily bat away one by one. They'll accumulate soon enough, but not yet. Right now the only relevant data is John's hand resting on his chest.

John lies on his side and tries to memorize the expression on Sherlock's face. _It's odd, three weeks ago I watched him break a man's fingers one by one as if he was eating a bag of crisps, but right now he seems so fragile._ "I would do anything for you," he blurts out. "You know that."

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at John sideways, without turning his head. "Of course I do," he agrees. "But you…" He clears his throat awkwardly. "Just keep doing what you've been doing." Then he adds, "You're doing fine."

John presses his lips to Sherlock's temple and smiles. "I know," he says.


End file.
